


scandals and sword-canes

by boom_goes_the_canon



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Misunderstandings, Oblivious Marius Pontmercy, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:15:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25935031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_goes_the_canon/pseuds/boom_goes_the_canon
Summary: “I’m carrying on an affair,” he says.“With who?” Théodule sounds intrigued.A name. He needs a name. He can’t carry on an affair with himself. “Courfeyrac!” he yells, because Courfeyrac is walking towards them and he will surely help Marius come up with a name—“You andCourfeyrac?”
Relationships: Courfeyrac/Marius Pontmercy
Comments: 10
Kudos: 34





	scandals and sword-canes

Marius jolts out of sleep when the front door slams shut. It could be anything: the landlord demanding payment, a door-to-door salesman espousing the benefits of some new-fangled scientific discovery, or enthusiastic revolutionaries debating at the tops of their lungs. None of the options seem particularly desirable. He pulls the covers over his head and stays very still. If they don’t know he’s there, they can’t possibly bother him much.

“Your cousin has a magnificent mustache, did you know?” Courfeyrac’s voice is much too close, and if Marius pulls down the covers, he has a sneaking suspicion that he will find Courfeyrac’s grinning face inches from his own. His heart would not be able to handle the shock.

“I never noticed.” He tries to say it with dignity, but it’s hard to be dignified when lying under a warm blanket. Your audience cannot see you cross your arms and huff.

Courfeyrac laughs. It makes something warm and happy balloon in Marius’ chest, as it always does. He’s given up trying to figure out why. It’s simply a fact of life, like the sky being blue, young girls staring at him on the street, and Combeferre shutting down long speeches with a takedown of two words.

“Of course you didn’t,” Courfeyrac says fondly, patting what he assumes to be Marius’ head. “He’s gone now. You can come out from under there.”

“I quite like it under here,” he says just to be contrary.

“I will never understand your ways, Marius Pontmercy.” Courfeyrac leaves the room, humming something horribly out-of-tune, and Marius reluctantly gets out of bed to get ready for his day.

He runs into his cousin outside, promenading in his uniform and drawing attention to his mustache. Marius immediately has a burning desire to fight him, perhaps challenging him to a duel. The only thing stopping him is that Théodule has a sword and he has none.

Courfeyrac has a sword, his traitorous mind supplies. Courfeyrac has _several_ swords, all helpfully concealed in canes. Marius could borrow one, stroll right up to his cousin Théodule, pull the sword out, and cut his annoying little mustache right off his annoying little face.

It is a great plan.

He’s just about to run back to the room and borrow the sword-cane with the black shaft, the one Courfeyrac purchased just last month, which pairs well with his waistcoat with the silver trimming although Marius has never told him that. He’s already at the threshold when Théodule spots him and calls him over.

Well, really, he says, “Hey, Marius Pontmercy!” and continues promenading, and Marius has to meet him halfway, sans sword-cane and with burning cheeks.

“Théodule,” he says in lieu of a greeting. He gives his cousin a haughty glance, drawing himself up to his full height. He does not look at his cousin’s mustache, the one Courfeyrac himself had complimented. He does _not_. Théodule would _win_ if he did. He cannot let Théodule win.

“Staying in the Rue de la Verrerie?”

“With Courfeyrac,” Marius says coldly. “He has mentioned your presence to me.”

Théodule has the audacity to smile. “Ah, the man with the curls and the well-tied cravat.”

It’s doing Courfeyrac a massive disservice, to describe him solely on those terms. He has the warmest smile and the friendliest manner, and is always ready to listen to people’s problems. He’s enthusiastic, generous, and flirtatious to the point of scandal. _And_ Marius knows for a fact that his waistcoats and trousers are something to be commented on, _and_ that he spends quite a long time perfecting his cuffs and the knot on his shoelaces, _and_ that he has a large collection of hats that inexplicably make their way into Marius’ wardrobe.

Instead of saying all this, he just says, “And he has a sword-cane.”

“A sword-cane,” Théodule repeats, tugging at a tuft of his mustache. “Interesting.”

Marius crosses his arms. “Not very.”

“Don’t be contrary now,” Théodule says, as if he’d said it thousands of times. “It’s only old Gillenormand wants a word with you, says he never wants to see your face again, so of course you must go. He wants to know how you’ve been spending his money.”

“I have never touched a single sou of his money!” Marius declares forcefully. “And I’d fight anyone who says so!”

“Well, he’s still sending it to you, so it doesn’t matter,” Théodule says, unfazed. “I would really rather you give it to me, the old aunt doesn’t cough up as much as she used to—”

“—I shall never touch a single sou of his money. And that is final. You may convey that message to him, monsieur, with my compliments.”

“Come now, cousin, don’t be so _rash_. What money he’s giving to you, he isn’t giving to me, and if you’re living quite well on what you’re earning now, think of a poor sap—”

Marius huffs. “If you can make him stop, I’m sure he’d give you something,” he says.

“Well, you have to do something scandalous,” Théodule says, and he looks at Marius like he thinks that is impossible, completely beyond the pale, and Marius has to prove him wrong.

“I _am_ doing something scandalous,” Marius says. He looks around wildly for an idea, down the street, up the street, and it drops, quite happily, into his head.

“I’m carrying on an affair,” he says.

“With who?” Théodule sounds intrigued.

A name. He needs a name. He can’t carry on an affair with himself. “Courfeyrac!” he yells, because Courfeyrac is walking towards them and he will surely help Marius come up with a name—

“You and _Courfeyrac_?” Théodule says, and he sounds proud and jealous at the same time, and he’s stopped twirling his mustache. “Well, well, well!”

Marius makes an unholy noise, like a distressed whale, and Théodule pats him firmly on the back. Courfeyrac gives them both a quizzical look, and suddenly he’s thumping Marius on the back as well, which quite frankly, does _not_ help.

“Congratulations,” Théodule says, as soon as Marius can breathe again. “I would never have suspected it of you.”

Marius is still trying to recover, but he manages to shoot a glare in his cousin’s direction.

“Oh, don’t worry, dear cousin, I’m not judging. We’re open-minded about these things nowadays, you know, and an affair of the Greek variety is very much in-fashion nowadays.” Théodule twirls his mustache. “I must see about having one myself.”

Théodule will clearly not believe him if he said that it was all just a misunderstanding, what with his waxing poetic about the advantages and disadvantages of having a paramour. There’s only one thing to do, of course.

He must go along with the assumption.

He awkwardly slings an arm around Courfeyrac’s shoulders, which is made difficult by the fact that they are different heights, and he has to contort himself to even manage the act. Courfeyrac turns a clearly confused smile onto him.

Without thinking, without the slightest ounce of thought, he clumsily plants a kiss on Courfeyrac’s cheek. Théodule laughs, probably at how horrible it must have looked. He’s mocking Marius. Marius will _not_ be mocked.

“What are you staring at?” he demands and Théodule just chuckles. Maybe an arm around the shoulders doesn’t look romantic enough. Courfeyrac’s trashy romance novels (a guilty pleasure Marius will never, _ever_ admit to indulging) keep mentioning the heroes catching heroines around the waist. Not that Courfeyrac is a heroine. But still.

Marius moves his arm down to Courfeyrac’s waist. It’s a very uncomfortable position, and Courfeyrac is looking more confused than ever, and it takes a lot to get Courfeyrac confused. Marius can’t quite meet his eyes, and he already knows that his face has gone every possible shade of red.

“Marius—” Courfeyrac says, and Marius panics. He’ll give it all away, of course he will, and he’ll ask questions, and Théodule will know all about the lie. He has to shut Courfeyrac up. He considers and discards the idea of a second kiss, a hand clapped over his mouth, and dragging him back into the building and letting the action stand for itself.

“—Don’t worry, he knows about us,” Marius says, making his best attempt at a wink. The strange expression on Courfeyrac’s face melts, and he doffs his cap to Théodule.

“I’d have to thank you for taking such good care of him until my return,” Courfeyrac says, and his eyes are teasing. He gestures to Marius with his cane and makes an ironic little bow.

Théodule does the same, but with very little charm. Courfeyrac does it better, Marius thinks. “It was my pleasure. Though the way you look at each other, I would think it will be yours soon enough,” Théodule says, and he turns away, but not before tossing a wink over his shoulder. Marius will have to ask Courfeyrac how to effectively wink one day.

They return to their rooms after that, stumbling over the steps. Marius still hasn’t let go of Courfeyrac. He untangles himself hastily before they can step through their door.

“Not that I mind being your lover,” Courfeyrac says, shutting the door behind him and helping Marius out of his coat. “But I believe the correct course of action is to inform me before you say anything to anyone else.”

“Pretending to be lovers,” Marius corrects absently.

Courfeyrac freezes while shrugging out of his own coat, and nods. “Slip of the tongue. But why?”

“I needed to do something scandalous.”

Courfeyrac just laughs. “Bahorel would have been a better choice of fake paramour. His waistcoat tends to strike terror into the hearts of the populace.”

“I panicked. There was a misunderstanding. I didn’t have a name for the person I was supposedly carrying on an affair with—”

“—and my name was the first thing you thought of? I’m offended.” He fakes a gasp.

“No.” Marius throws up his hands. Courfeyrac is impossible. “You were approaching us, you know, and I saw you and called your name, and well, assumptions were made!”

Courfeyrac laughs even harder at this. “Not to worry, not to worry. I’m sure it will never come up again.”

But it does.

About a week later, Marius returns from a late-night walk to find Théodule knocking on the door to Courfeyrac’s apartment, and he practically leaps across the street to haul him off by the collar.

“What do you think you are doing?” he hisses at Théodule. “You’ll wake him!”

Théodule raises his hands. “Whoa, I was just dropping by to deliver a message. I wasn’t trying to wake anyone.”

“Courfeyrac is already asleep at this hour!” He shakes the man harshly.

“And you’re not with him? That seems cruel, Marius. You should know to treat your lovers better.”

Ah, right. They were pretending to do that. Marius drops his hand, the confounded blush rising to his face again. “I left for a walk,” he says, lamely. “To clear my head. After um, romantic activities.” His acting is the worst. Why did he even choose this ruse of all possible ruses? No one in the novels acts like this. “You know how it is.”

“Ah, young love,” Théodule sighs, and Marius does not bother pointing out that Théodule is only a few years his senior.

“You said something about a message?” Marius says, trying to wrench himself back into pleasantry. His voice comes out in a squeak.

Théodule nods. “Grandfather says that he wants to yell at you in person. And to bring Courfeyrac.”

-

“Well, then we must go to your grandfather then,” Courfeyrac says when Marius tells him. He looks supremely unconcerned. Why can’t Marius be supremely unconcerned too? It’s just not fair. Courfeyrac can’t hog all the unconcern.

“You don’t understand,” Marius says. “He’s horrible.”

“Lucky for you, I know how to deal with difficult people.” Courfeyrac smiles, warm and sunny, and Marius is almost tempted to believe him. Almost.

“But my grandfather—”

“—will loathe me with a passion. I shall be absolutely horrid to him. I’ll shout down his beliefs. I’ll get drunk and show you a scandalous amount of affection.” Courfeyrac twirls around, lost in his narrative. “I’ll dance, tear down paintings. I’ll even lecture loud and long about the virtues of Marius Pontmercy.”

“No need for that.” His voice squeaks yet again.

“Well, no, there’s no _need_ for it, but I want to do it. When else would I get the chance?”

“To scandalize a royalist?”

“Oh, heavens no. I scandalize royalists several times before breakfast alone. I meant showing you a scandalous amount of affection.” He ruffles Marius’ hair, completely oblivious to the fact that Marius is dying inside.

“You can’t just _say_ things like that,” Marius protests, trying and failing to be grumpy. “You’re supposed to be scandalizing my grandfather, not me.”

“Oh, please. Any amount of affection is scandalous for you. It’s too easy.” He throws open Marius’ wardrobe and casts a critical eye over the garments. “I suppose there’s no chance that this meeting could be postponed until you get a properly tailored coat?” he says, ever hopeful.

Marius shakes his head. His grandfather’s anger is as mercurial as the rest of him, and if he grows calmer, there goes Marius’ chance to get him to stop sending him money.

Courfeyrac shakes his head, like he does when he doesn’t understand Marius, but he doesn’t pry. Instead, he gravely selects his least favorite items from his own wardrobe and lays them out on the bed, with the air of a man escorting children to a funeral.

“You can wear these,” he says.

Marius stares blankly at him. “I can’t fit into your clothes.”

Courfeyrac sighs, pretends to wipe away a single tear. “They can be altered.”

“We don’t have enough time.”

Courfeyrac looks quite offended. “I can sew. Pins exist. Really, Marius, why do you give up so easily?”

“I am _taller than you_ , Courfeyrac.”

Courfeyrac sighs. “It will offend your grandfather to see you dressed fashionably and in ill-fitting clothing, and lovers often share clothes anyway.” He presses his cravat into Marius’ hand, and their fingers brush, and Marius doesn’t understand why his heart is suddenly racing. “Everything will be fine.”

Everything is definitely not fine.

They arrive at the address the next day, in a carriage that they rented. Courfeyrac keeps their hands joined, because Marius would fidget otherwise, and Marius does his best to breathe through his starched shirt collar and neatly tied cravat.

“Now when we’re inside, you’re not allowed to be shocked at anything I do,” Courfeyrac says, way too calmly. “You aren’t to pull away. Marius, stop looking at me like that. You need to act pleased with my company.”

Marius tries.

“You look like I kidnapped you at gunpoint. Smile, for Christ’s sake.” Courfeyrac pokes at the corners of Marius’ mouth, and Marius jerks away, his cheeks burning. “Better.”

“Jerk,” Marius mutters, without any heat.

“Oh, are we doing pet names now, _sweetheart_?” Courfeyrac flutters his eyelashes, and Marius does not find it attractive, not even a little bit, because that would be weird. He’s just nervous about confronting his grandfather, and that explains why his hands feel so sweaty and why his heart is racing.

The carriage slows to a stop, and before Marius can even take a steadying breath, Courfeyrac has scrambled out and is holding up a hand to Marius. Marius clings readily, and when he finally looks up, he sees the distressed face of his grandfather staring back at him from a window.

So far, so good.

“What is he _dressed in_?” Courfeyrac asks, sounding exactly as distressed as Marius expected. He loops his arm through Marius’ and shudders.

Marius sniggers, and Courfeyrac takes advantage of their current position to elbow him.

“Remind me never to comment on your wardrobe again,” Courfeyrac says, and then they’re at the door and there’s really no room for snide comments anymore.

Gillenormand gapes at him with rage. He looks like steam should be coming out of his ears, Marius thinks. Courfeyrac’s friends would have torn him to pieces for fun, with several puns thrown in for good measure.

“Marius,” he says, stiffly. Marius completely expects him to clobber him with his cane, and he shuts his eyes as Gillenormand raises his hand.

No, he and Courfeyrac are just shaking hands, because that’s a normal thing people do.

“It’s so wonderful to meet Marius’ family,” Courfeyrac is saying, with his most brilliant smile. Smiles like that should not be wasted on people as cold as Gillenormand, Marius thinks.

Gillenormand makes a noise and gasps like a fish.

“Such short notice, though,” Courfeyrac says, letting go of Gillenormand’s hand and turning to fuss over Marius’ cravat knot. They had agreed on the action yesterday, as a compromise between standing next to each other often (Marius’ suggestion) and a kiss worthy of a trashy romance (Courfeyrac’s suggestion).

Marius shouldn’t pull away, this he knows. He freezes instead.

“Marius, what is the meaning of this?” Gillenormand demands. “Is this what you’ve been doing, all these years? Taking up with disreputable—”

“—oh, I am much more than merely disreputable, Grandfather,” Courfeyrac says, ignoring Gillenormand’s indignation. “I am proud to count myself among the number of the Romantics.” He beams. “We were at a production of Hernani, Marius and I, just a few nights ago.”

Or, more accurately, Courfeyrac had gone to the theatre with Prouvaire and Bahorel, and Marius had been invited to their pre-show dinner. Marius had not set foot in the theatre itself, nor participated in the brawl that followed. He had helped bandage Courfeyrac up after he returned home, yes, but that was the extent of his involvement.

“I punched a man,” Marius adds, in a fit of inspiration.

“He jests,” Courfeyrac says. “He punched three men, and challenged another to a duel.”

“Courfeyrac lent me his sword-cane, when he heard about it, and served as my second.”

“Courfeyrac?” the old man croaks and Marius nearly slaps himself for the slip. Lovers do not call each other by their last names, of course, how stupid, stupid, stupid—

“A bad habit he has fallen into,” Courfeyrac says immediately. “We spent _ages_ dancing around each other, you know, and he never quite understood he was _allowed_ to use my first name, poor thing. I’ve grown quite used to it myself.” He squeezes Marius fondly, and Marius has to swallow against the lump in his throat.

“But he calls you Marius.”

Courfeyrac waves the inaccuracy away. “I am a presumptuous fellow. Speaking of which, shall we have afternoon tea?”

Basque and Nicolette appear from nowhere, and start serving tea and small sandwiches. Marius was never quite sure how they took care of the household, and he still isn’t sure now. He knows Nicolette is on his side, however, because she winks at Marius when she offers him the sugar bowl, and cocks her head towards Courfeyrac.

Marius gives her his best glare.

Courfeyrac pokes him in the rib. “Heathen. Tea should have cream and sugar.”

“No, it shouldn’t.”

“A travesty. Complete and absolute betrayal. Why I let you into my home and my bed, I will never know.”

If Courfeyrac is allowed to insult Marius, Marius is allowed to insult Courfeyrac. “Keep your horrible opinions on tea to yourself, monsieur, and eat your small sandwich.” No, wait, he needs to make this romantic. He sets his tea and sandwich aside, extends his arms rigidly towards Courfeyrac, and brings their faces together.

He has failed to take into account their difference in heights. He has just banged Courfeyrac’s forehead against his lower jaw, and bitten his tongue nearly in two in the process. He’s no expert in kissing, but he feels like that should not be the end result.

“Ow,” Courfeyrac says.

“Sorry,” Marius whispers. Or he tries to, anyway. It hurts to move his tongue.

“Let’s try again,” Courfeyrac practically whispers, and he kisses Marius. The proper way, this time. Without biting his tongue.

When he releases Marius, Gillenormand is shouting. Marius doesn’t know about what, exactly. He thinks it’s about being disowned. Maybe. He’s not sure. It might be about being dethroned, or deboned. Maybe postponed.

His grandfather is certainly not going to be sending him any more money.

He ends up in a carriage. Somehow. Courfeyrac shoves Marius in first, and he ends up in an ungainly sprawl. Then Courfeyrac climbs up, shuts the door, and drops gracefully into his seat. It’s not fair.

“Well, that was a disaster,” Courfeyrac says, kicking his feet up and shamelessly lounging on the seat. “I thought for sure we could overstay our welcome a bit more.”

Marius nods, still dazed. He thinks that it would be nice to lean against Courfeyrac, just for a little while, and maybe put his arms around him, because it’s cold, and Courfeyrac is sure to be warm. He’s already crossing the carriage without thinking, and plopping himself into Courfeyrac’s lap.

“Marius?”

“Shh,” Marius says. He pats Courfeyrac’s head. “It’s okay. It’s okay. We’re lovers. We’re having a scandalous affair.”

“I thought we were _just pretending_ ,” Courfeyrac says, and he’s waggling his eyebrows.

“Shut up,” Marius says, and tries to kiss him again. He doesn’t bite his tongue this time.


End file.
